Signature Moves
by wrldpossibility
Summary: My take on Michael and Sara working out their sleeping arrangements at the beginning of S4.


_"_ _Someday soon,"_ he says, _"_ _we're going to drop that little boat of yours into the water and disappear forever. I promise."_

He bends his head to her, but he's glad she can't hear the roaring of his thoughts as they churn with all he's leaving _unsaid_ …all his fears coiled tightly and waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the flipside of this coin of luck or fate or whatever he has to thank for her presence, here…alive…to show its face.

He finds himself praying that if they do manage the impossible for Agent Self and cast aside the moorings to sail away, the sheer accumulation of days and nights at their disposal as they bob upon the surface of cobalt waters will do nothing to quench his thirst for her. He prays that the day will never come that he takes the feel of her touch on his skin for granted. Because right now, her palm sliding over his skull is more than a caress; it's a blessing, and he closes his eyes, wanting only to receive. Wanting only to drink in the smell of her as his face presses to her chest. She kisses the crown of his head. _Oh, Sara._

An instant later, she's straightening slightly, her fingers fluttering in the subtlest gesture for him to rise and follow her, and so he does, directly into the cavernous cool of the warehouse.

They're the first ones into the room, and he lets the heavy door shut behind them with a loud click as he blinks, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. In a reversal from mere moments before, he draws her against him, wrapping his arms around her torso, cupping the back of her head to pull her into him. He realizes now that he's practically shaking. After what feels like a long time, he speaks. His voice echoes slightly off the steel beams and concrete walls. "Sara? Never pull a stunt like that again."

She pulls back in the circle of his arms, and for an instant, he wonders if she thinks he's rebuking her for her chaste, though decidedly public, kiss on the platform outside. Then she sighs, two fingers grazing his cheek, before leaning her head back against his with a weak smile. "But giving myself up for you seems to be my signature move."

He closes his eyes, imagining what he had been too busy running to see— _Sara stopping short, her hands up before they're grabbed and forced behind her back._ He shakes his head sharply. He's definitely rebuking now.

"But I'm not wanted," she protests. I wasn't risking jail time. Buying you an extra ten seconds or so was the only thing that made sense."

This is true, of course, but he won't admit it. He just holds her, his embrace tightening as the seconds tick by. Predictably, he hears the door creak back open, and he releases her to lean heavily against the wall as Roland and Bellick walk past them without more than a cursory glance.

They're heading straight for the kitchen. He's not sure where Linc and Alex are, and doesn't imagine that bodes well. Sara's eyes follow the men only for a moment before returning to study him. Her gaze is thorough and unrelenting and entirely too clinical, and he hastily straightens from the wall, trying to look much less weary than he feels.

She wasn't born yesterday. Her eyes never falter from his face. "You look exhausted."

He answers her question with a question. This, of course, is _his_ signature move. "How are _you_ holding up?"

Again, she's not to be deterred. "How's your head?"

He frowns. She holds her ground.

"You had a headache earlier. You were holding your forehead. Was the pain behind your eyes?"

He pushes himself back from the wall entirely. Bellick and Roland have disappeared into the kitchen, and he tells himself that's the only reason he's drawing her back against him. "It's gone now," he tells her softly. And it is.

When she answers, her voice is muffled by the folds of his shirt. She shifts her face to the side, but doesn't lift her head. "Promise me you'll get some rest tonight."

He traces the line of her spine through her shirt, trying not to envision the scars criss-crossing her back. "I'll try." He thinks of the common room where all the men have set up camp beds and smiles. "You'll be shocked to hear that Bellick snores."

He feels the soft vibration of her chuckle, and then she's silent for some time. When she speaks again, her voice is no more than a whisper. Her shoulder rises in a slight shrug beneath his arm, giving him the impression she's marginally nervous. "I meant you should sleep in the boat," she clarifies.

Ah. _Nervous now makes sense._ Instantly, his rejuvenation is genuine. The evening before, she had turned toward the tiny cabin door of her landlocked vessel without him, and he had let her go without asking for explanation. For the record, he wouldn't have asked for one tonight, either, but he can't say he's not glad she's brought up the subject of their sleeping arrangements. He knows he should probably just accept and be done with it, but he suddenly feels like flirting. "I thought you said I needed rest."

Color spots her neck, but it doesn't quite reach her face. "You just had what amounts to laser surgery on your entire torso, Michael. I'll make sure you get rest."

His hand slides to the back of her neck and rests there, his fingers gently kneading. "But I just told you I feel fine." He looks at her, arranging his face into a carefully deadpanned expression. "And I thought giving yourself up for me was your signature move."

She looks at him like she can't quite believe what she's hearing. He's pretty sure she's shuffling through about a dozen retorts before she settles on a grin. "Are you using my words against me, Scofield?"

He glances quickly toward the main door—still no Mahone, nor any sign of Lincoln. He captures her chin in one hand and guides her face upward to kiss her mouth leisurely before drawing back to trace his thumb along her lip. "I'm only saying that if memory serves—and it serves me quite well—you've recently extended that particularly noble stance of yours to include the bedroom."

She stops smiling. Instead, she opens her mouth to place an open kiss against his knuckle before leaning forward to recapture his mouth. He braces his hand against her cheekbone and returns her affections twofold. "Yes," she agrees at length, laughing softly, one hand on his jaw to hold him at bay while she catches her breath. "I guess I have."

"Imagine my delight."

She captures his mouth again. "Imagine mine."

He merely groans. He's about to tell her she's got to stop using that breathless, mid-kiss voice on him when she breaks away again.

"Michael?" _There it is again._ "Why aren't we on that boat yet?"


End file.
